


cool it off before you burn it out

by brookethenerd



Category: Stranger Things (TV 2016)
Genre: F/M, Fluff, Happy Ending, Reader-Insert, Steve is dumb, but means well
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-22
Updated: 2020-01-22
Packaged: 2021-02-27 08:42:25
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,185
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22354294
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/brookethenerd/pseuds/brookethenerd
Summary: The reader moves to town, and Steve tells a lie to impress her (aka steve makes a few mistakes but really just wants to hang out with Dustin’s pretty new neighbor)
Relationships: Steve Harrington/Reader, Steve Harrington/You
Kudos: 75





	cool it off before you burn it out

Hawkins isn’t a transient town. Its residents have lived there for generations, often in the same houses or on the same streets, and it’s rare that someone has to repaint the population number on the sign at the town line.

When a new family moves in across the street from Dustin - from London, to add fuel to the fire - the town is alight with chatter, and Steve hears about the beautiful girl his age through the grapevine a week before he ever gets a look at the newcomers.

He’s dropping Dustin off at his house after an outing to the new ice cream place on Main Street - not as good as Scoops, according to Dustin; a thousand times better than what she and Steve scooped, according to Robin - when he sees you, pulling a box out of a U-Haul and pausing when Dustin hops out of the car, a smile tugging on your lips.

You’re the most beautiful creature to grace Hawkins, Indiana in years - possibly, ever - Steve thinks, and he’s so dumbstruck that he almost takes out Dustin’s mailbox as he turns into the driveway.

“ _Jesus_ , dude,” Dustin says, gripping the dash, making a face as Steve slows to a stop. Steve rakes a hand through his hair, grimacing.

“My bad.”

“That’s why Robin drives,” he says.

“When you start chipping in for gas, you can bitch about my driving,” Steve retorts, cocking a brow. Dustin turns his nose up, popping open the door and climbing out without responding. Steve rolls his eyes and unclips his seatbelt, climbing out of the car and leaning against the top of it, watching as Dustin collects his bag from the trunk.

“Dustin!” Your voice carries across the street, and you jog across the asphalt, stopping behind Steve’s car, hands on your hips. You notice Steve and your lips curl up in a smile so dazzling he nearly loses his breath; any game he might have had is nowhere to be found. “Hi. You must be Steve, the unofficial babysitter.”

“Don’t forget _unpaid_ ,” Steve says, stepping away from the door and holding out a hand for you to shake. You take it, smile widening, holding on a beat longer than necessary. Your gaze flicks to Dustin, who pops Steve’s trunk shut and faces you with a toothy grin; it seems Steve isn’t the only one under your spell.

“You still up for unpacking? Everyone’s out for the day, and our last shipment got in today,” you say, jerking a chin toward the truck full of boxes across the street.

“Totally,” Dustin says.

You meet Steve’s gaze, a brow arching in question.

“I’m guessing you’re not interested in more unpaid labor?” You ask, scrunching your nose up in anticipation of the _no_.

“I-uh-I have a few hours,” Steve says, trying to be casual - and failing. The corners of your mouth turn up, and you fold your arms across your chest. Steve is unable to do anything but beam like a _complete_ dork.

“Get a room,” Dustin asserts, with all the grace and blistering candor of a fourteen-year-old. Heat creeps up Steve’s cheeks, and he reaches out to sock the younger boy lightly in the arm with a disapproving, “ _Come on, man_!” You only laugh and lead them across the street.

* * *

The inside of the house - the same floor layout as Dustin’s, making it easily navigable - is half hastily unpacked items and half boxes positioned around a few pieces of furniture. Dustin makes himself at home in the kitchen, unpacking things with your promise that he could help himself to anything he wishes. Steve ends up with you in your bedroom - the most organized room in the house - helping put up posters and fill shelves with books and picture frames of you with your family all over the world.

There’s an entire lifetime tucked into the bedroom, far more exciting than Steve’s - and he’s had an eventful few years. Little souvenirs from different countries - a carved wooden camel from Bahrain, a small ceramic chef from Paris, a brightly painted glass bus from Zimbabwe - tell of adventures and a million stories that take place somewhere other than Hawkins, Indiana.

Steve’s entire life fits inside the small town. It pales in comparison to the gallery of yours.

You notice Steve’s lingering gaze on a photograph of you in London, and you come to stand beside him, a smile tugging on your lips.

“My dad works for the government. It took us everywhere.”

“I bet it’s a bummer to go from somewhere like that to a place like this,” he says. Your brows furrow, lips turning down in a frown.

“Not at all, actually,” you say. “I’ve spent my life in busy cities, always on the move. Hawkins is…”

“Boring?”

You roll your eyes and say, “ _Quiet_.” Steve nods, lips pursed.

“Like I said. _Boring_.”

“It’s _peaceful_ ,” you say, a smile playing on your lips. “It’s a nice change.”

“It gets old fast.”

“That isn’t just a Hawkins thing,” you say with a shrug, moving away from the shelf to sort through another box. You pull a guitar out, styrofoam pellets falling off the slick wood, and set it on the bed. Steve goes to it immediately, running a finger lightly along the taut strings.

“It’s beautiful,” he says.

“You play?”

He doesn’t even think about it before he says, “ _Yes_ ,” even though he absolutely _does not_. He’s just sick of being plain old Steve Harrington from Hawkins, who has never stepped a foot outside Indiana, who works at an old video store, who is excruciatingly dull in comparison to you.

Your lips curl up in a smile, and you say, “We’ll have to jam sometime, then.”

“We will,” Steve says, and knows he’s surely fucked himself.

* * *

Though he knows Hawkins can’t compare to the places you’ve seen, Sattler Quarry is one of the best sights the town has to offer, and it’s the first place Steve shows you. It’s a short walk through the trees from the dirt road that leads to the top, and it opens into a clearing right on the cliff’s edge.

You jog to the edge, stopping a few inches away, peering down at the blue water below. Steve smiles at the sight of you running, a smile on your own lips, like an excited kid, your happiness infectious.

“Bloody hell,” you breathe, turning from the edge to face Steve, shaking your head. “It’s incredible.”

“It’s not bad,” he says. You scoff.

“Not bad? It’s wonderful.” You drop down onto the dirt, sitting cross-legged facing the water. Steve sits beside you, the rubber of his sneakers aligned with the edge.

“It’s so quiet out here,” you say. “London is…always moving. There’s no time to catch your breath. But here…” You close your eyes, tipping your head back and drawing in a long breath. “It’s like I can breathe again. It makes my head quiet.” You meet his gaze, clearing your throat, a flush creeping across your cheeks. “Sorry. That didn’t make any sense. I’ll stop talking.”

Steve shakes his head quickly.

“No. No, it…it makes sense.” He shifts his leg to nudge your knee lightly. “Please, keep talking.”

Your lips quirk up, and to Steve’s relief, you don’t go quiet. Your voice is quickly becoming his favorite sound.

* * *

Steve strums the guitar strings, the noise squeaking out painfully high and horribly off-key. Robin winces from her spot beside him on the carpet of her bedroom, hands flying to her ears somewhat dramatically.

“ _Jesus_ , dude,” she says, reaching out to flick his fingers off the fretboard.

“I suck at this,” Steve says. “Like, really, really suck.”

“I didn’t want to be the first to say it…” Robin says. At his pointed glare, she grins. “So you’re not gonna be the next Bryan Adams. Big whoop.”

“The next who?”

Robin pinches the bridge of her nose, shaking her head.

“You’re hopeless.”

“No, Robin, you have to help me. If I can’t learn to play this-” Steve glares at the guitar in his lap “- _stupid_ thing, Y/N will know I’m not actually some guitar whiz, and it’s over.”

“Or,” Robin leans back against her bed frame, cocking a brow, “you could tell her the truth.”

“And have her know I really am just some small-town nobody? No thanks,” Steve says with a snort.

“Because girls _love_ when you lie to them,” Robin deadpans. Steve frowns, setting the guitar aside and drawing his knees to his chest, arms slung around them.

“I don’t have a choice. She’s this… _cool_ , _beautiful_ , well-traveled, amazing person, and I’m a college reject who works at a video store.”

“She doesn’t like you just because she thinks you’re this musically talented genius. She likes you because you’re _you_ , dingus,” Robin says. “And while you _clearly_ have your faults, you’re a good guy, Steve. Whether or not you can hold a tune doesn’t matter.”

“And if I do tell her the truth? She might hate me for lying.”

Robin shrugs.

“Anything good has a risk, right? It’s up to you to decide whether or not to take it. But if you don’t, it _will_ come crashing down.”

* * *

Steve has never wanted to write anything for anyone before, and it’s the first time he’s ever wished he was more artistically inclined. He’d love to write you a song, but he doubts he could even figure out a haiku without it sounding daft.

He settles for something else instead. And he says all the things he’s wanted to say since he met you three months ago, since he got himself tangled in this mess and tangled in you.

_Dear Y/N,_

_I wanted to write you a song, or maybe a poem, but I didn’t pay attention during English class, and I don’t know how to do either. I think a letter is more my style, anyway._

_You told me once that Hawkins made your mind quiet. I never told you that you’re my Hawkins; you make the chaos in my head settle…_

* * *

You sit in the passenger seat of Steve’s car, a hand out the window, fingers fluttering in the breeze, head tipped against the window, a soft smile on your lips. The sun has just started its descent, the sky bleeding pinks and oranges, the light washing the darkening horizon in color.

He’s reluctant to turn onto your street, wishing to keep driving until he can’t anymore; anything to keep sneaking glances at your peaceful frame beside him. He pulls up to your house, stalling at the curb, putting the car into park.

“I have to tell you something,” he says. You unclip your seatbelt and look at him, and he forces himself to meet your gaze.

“I lied to you.”

You tilt your head, frown tugging down on your lips, but you wait for him to continue.

“I told you I could play guitar, and that I used to be in that band. And it was bullshit. I can’t even play the triangle. I just…wanted you to think I was…more,” he says, gesturing to himself, “more than just some boring kid who’s never getting out of Hawkins.”

“I know,” you say. He frowns.

“You…know?”

“You’ve gotten good at finding ways out of playing when I suggest. It doesn’t take a genius to figure out you were talking out the arse.”

“But you-you didn’t say anything?”

You give a half shrug, and Steve’s stomach churns. He’s mucked everything up, and he hates himself fiercely for it.

And then, before he can stew in his loathing any longer, you speak.

“I think you’re far more than just some boring kid from Hawkins. You’re the funniest person I’ve ever met, and you’re so selfless it’s sometimes painful to watch, and you care so much about people. Sure, you’re an absolute tosser sometimes, too,” you say, tossing him a grin, “but you’re _good_.”

Steve shifts, uncomfortable beneath the flattery, and the folded letter in his pocket crinkles. He jams a hand in his pocket and tugs the paper out, cheeks flushing as he hands it to you.

“What is this?” You ask. Steve tilts his head and jerks a chin toward it, a silent invitation to read it. You press your lips together and unfold the letter.

“I typically fuck up when I say things,” he says, “so I figured I’d write it instead.”

Your brows knit together, and you drop your gaze, silent as you scan the scrawled sentences. It only takes a minute to read it, but it feels like an eternity to Steve.

When you lift your gaze to his again, your eyes are soft, lips curved up ever so slightly.

“Steve,” you say, and lift a hand to his cheek. He leans into your touch, and you close the distance between you, kissing him softly, gently. His stomach flips, and he kisses you back, lips parting against yours.

When you finally pull back, the lips Steve just kissed are curled up in a smile.

“You make me quiet, too,” you say. And then you kiss him again. And again. And again.


End file.
